XVIII.

The apathy, ere a crime resolved is done, Is scarce less dreadful than remorse for crime; By no allurement can the soul be won From brooding o'er the weary creep of time: Mordred stole forth into the happy sun, Striving to hum a scrap of Breton rhyme, But the sky struck him speechless, and he tried In vain to summon up his callous pride.